


Mutual Procrastination

by jailedbard (twoheadedenby)



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Cunnilingus, M/M, PWP, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9983912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoheadedenby/pseuds/jailedbard
Summary: Pate doesn't want to clean the house. Creighton doesn't either.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thalassashells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalassashells/gifts).



“Goodness!” Exclaimed Pate. “The place is getting _filthy_!”

“So what?” Grumbled Creighton. “It’s not my turn to sweep.”

Creighton was reclining idly on the couch, sharpening his axe with a whetstone with the same casual air that someone else might file their nails. Pate was standing in front of him, looking down with his hands fixed disapprovingly at his hips. “You’re not even doing anything right now.”

Creighton shrugged. “Doesn’t change the fact that it’s not my turn.”

“Wasn’t it my turn last week?” Asked Pate.

“And who actually did it?”

“But that was in exchange for clearing that accursed spider out of the building!”

“I don’t remember signing up for that, and it was you who left the door open besides.”

“ _Well then_ ,” said Pate in the huffiest tones he could muster. “What are you going to do if I’m too tired to make dinner tonight because of all the time I spent cleaning up _your_ mess?”

Creighton shrugged again. “I can cook.”

Pate thought about Creighton’s cooking and decided a different tack was needed. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, after all. And anything was better than another heaped plate of singed remains.

“Make some room,” he said, nudging Creighton further down the couch so he could squeeze in behind him. He set his helmet down on the floor beside him and tousled his own hair with one hand as he settled in. He started unfastening the straps on Creighton’s helmet too. “Is this okay?”

“Mm.” Creighton continued working on his axe, seemingly oblivious.

Pate had long learned to differentiate Creighton’s grunts of affirmation from his grunts of disagreement. He liked being the articulate one in the relationship anyway. It saved him a lot of the personal effort he would otherwise be expending on making sure he always did the talking for the two of them.

With Creighton’s ever-so-enthusiastic permission, he finished unfastening the helmet, pulling the headpiece and mask off in separate hands and setting them down next to his own helmet. As usual, Creighton’s hair was messy and matted where the helmet had sat, and sticking out wildly at the point where it ended. Pate set about combing it with his fingers, making sure to run the tips of his gloves over Creighton’s scalp at just the right angle.

Creighton slowed his movements with the whetstone, trying to focus and avoid the temptation to sink into Pate’s touch. He was having, at best, moderate success. Pate had a way with his fingers, well-honed over the course of their relationship, and Creighton was always one to give into pleasurable impulse.

Pate was ready to take Creighton’s weight when he slumped against him, his arm lolling to the side and letting his axe clatter to the floor. Pate lowered Creighton’s head into his lap and continued stroking his hair, resting the other hand lightly on his stomach. There was a certain warmth that permeated even the leather and chainmail they were clad in.

Pate allowed the moment to stretch out good and long before he allowed his hand to creep underneath Creighton’s tabard with expert knowledge of where the gaps in his under-armour lay. The warmth in Creighton’s belly was stronger now, and he was shifting around in Pate’s lap as if unable to get fully comfortable.

“Shall I lose the gloves?” Pate asked.

“Mhmm.”

“My, we _are_ enthusiastic today, aren’t we?” It was voiced as a jab, but Pate was genuinely surprised by the note of eagerness he detected in Creighton’s voice. Perhaps he had needed this more than Pate realised. He daintily pulled his gloves off a finger at a time, making altogether too much of a ceremony in removing them. “Let’s see what we can do, shall we?”

Freed of most of its bulk, his hand was free to slip between Creighton’s skin and the belts holding his pants and armoured leggings in place. The warmth was feverish here, trapped between Creighton’s body and his stifling metal chain at the central point of his desire. Pate made sure to bring his hand lower slowly, careful not to overshoot. With the memory of touch and Creighton’s attempts to stifle his little gasps and twitches, it wasn’t too hard to pinpoint the right place.

He pressed gently with a fingertip just above Creighton’s clit to solicit a breathy curse and verify his placement. With his other arm now wrapped around Creighton’s shoulders to steady him, he depressed his fingers again and started to rub in gentle circles. He let the pressure grow and fall off until he found the middle ground that had Creighton’s sharp gasps and gravelly moans coming at a pitch and intensity that was to his liking.

Creighton was starting to sweat enough for Pate to notice, and he realised that he was too, from the forearm down. Creighton pulling his thighs tighter together as he worked was only worsening the airflow problem.

“Oi,” said Creighton as Pate withdrew his hand. “What gives?”

“I’m afraid we must get you out of those pants if we’re to keep at this,” said Pate, his voice laced with insincere regret.

“Fine,” said Creighton, sitting up so that Pate could get out from under him. Staying upright felt like an awful lot of work to him.

“Wonderful.” Pate stroked Creighton’s cheek and bid him to lie back down. He carefully peeled back the skirt of Creighton’s tabard, leaving it bunched up around his midriff so he could unclasp the garters holding his pants and leggings up. With Creighton compliantly lifting his hips, it took no work at all to whisk both away, leaving them piled at the end of the couch where they fell.

“Perfect,” crooned Pate, with Creighton laid bare from the waist down before him. A dark tangle of hair obscured his entrance and culminated in a thin wiry trail of hair leading to his belly button. Pate had been on him to groom it down to something more _respectable_ , but Creighton had curtly refused his input at every turn.

It did not, he had to admit, bother him as much as his principles dictated it should.

Certainly, it did not instil hesitance as he clambered over the arm of the couch to insert himself between Creighton’s legs. He took a few moments to ensure his knees and spine were bent _just so_ to ensure he wouldn’t come to any discomfort from the couch’s unforgiving wooden frame.

“Shall I?” he asked, head poised between Creighton’s thighs. He could feel that same heat radiating over his face now. He wouldn’t be surprised to know his cheeks were flushed red.

“For fuck’s sake, just _do it_ already.”

“Well, since you asked so nicely...”

Pate nonetheless did as he was told, securing his hands together over Creighton’s hips, arms wrapped around his legs. He closed his eyes and let his tongue do the looking, running it experimentally along Creighton’s folds a few times (eliciting a few approving grunts in the process) before he moved closer to his clit, falling into the practised motions hew knew Creighton liked best.

Sure enough, he was met with exactly the response he wanted: loud, long moans, all the more gratifying for Pate to hear them coming so clearly through what he surmised was a pair of mailed hands over Creighton’s mouth.

Pate raised his head. He supposed he must look daft, hair plastered to his forehead and head swimming from the heat and Creighton’s scent. He couldn’t resist, however. “I suppose that was to your liking?”

Creighton didn’t even answer him. He felt a pair of heavy gauntlets grip the back of his head and push it back down, thighs closing around it to keep it in place.

Supposing he had pushed his luck, Pate went to work in earnest, tracing patterns with his tongue over Creighton’s clit that only he would ever be privy to. Creighton did not remove his hands, holding his head steady as he grinded against Pate’s tongue with his hips, insistently dictating the rhythm.

Pate, to his credit, was fairly tireless. Creighton’s preferred pace was a demanding one, but he kept up with it beat-for-beat. He was driven by pride, not generosity – to be the first to relent would be tantamount to _losing_ in his eyes. Not that he didn’t delight in the noises Creighton was making; it was always a thrill to be so palpably aware that he held that kind of power over someone.

If stopping meant defeat, then it was a sweet victory indeed when Creighton reached his climax, pressing down on Pate’s head with all four limbs as he spasmed and gave out a throaty cry. Pate kept working him until he was spent entirely, all the power gone from Creighton’s hold on him.

Pate stood up and stretched, dabbing at some stray sweat with a handkerchief. Creighton remained on the couch, looking somewhat comical with his pants off and his legs splayed listlessly. His chest was rising and falling in great volumes, plainly visible even through the tabard, chainmail, and compression undershirt that he was so rarely seen without.

Pate bent down and picked up his gloves off the floor. He had laid the trap, and now it was time to collect.

“These are so _dusty_!” He exclaimed. “We really must get this place swept at once. And I think someone owes me a favour, now.”

Creighton laughed, hearty and genuine in its amusement. “I suppose you think I can so much as bloody walk right now.”

“Oh, dear.” Pate had miscalculated.

“And when _are_ you starting on dinner, anyway?”

Pate corrected himself. He had _severely_ miscalculated.


End file.
